


Passing the Torch

by Arithanas



Series: Love Demands Sacrifices [21]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Adopted Children, Gen, Service, Traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 06:02:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1640, Bragelonne. On service and tradition. Or how Grimaud managed to have someone to keep up with some ancient tradition of his family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing the Torch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilgenious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilgenious/gifts).



Snow had fallen over Bragelonne, but this year, Grimaud had made his preparations, his garden was safe, his frailest herbs were on the hot house and the rest were well cared under a solid hayrick. Winter could make its worst, nothing would spoil this winter holiday. 

Since it was Christmastide, his master went to a formal dinner with young master Raoul at a neighboring house, and that give him one night, free of responsibilities, free time just for him. The rest of the house staff, once the master trespassed the verge, asked to be released of their work, and Grimaud agreed on condition of all chores were made and everything were ready, if the master returns home. Soon, Bragelonne was ready, clean and quiet.

That was a so rare situation, but Grimaud knew how to enjoy those little surprises that life throw at him. He found some new bread, some cold meats and a mug of beer, that was a good dinner as any. With his loot in hand, he climbed to his bedroom, a small cubby next to his master's chamber, which was awarded to him in deference to his position as head of the house staff, it was small but it was clean and away from prying eyes; he had never a place which he could call his own and that had not yet lost the novelty after five years. He was setting his mind to laze around the whole night.

Grimaud placed his dinner in the small table next to his bed, lit up a candle, ditched his pants and his jerkin, and jumped to his bed to escape the cold. He almost giggled to himself, but it was nice to be a little bit silly without witnesses. The pillows were piled up against a corner and Grimaud brought the dish to his lap, ready to eat his share.

The knock in the door interrupted his dinner. With a practised resignation, Grimaud got up, placed his dish on the table, threw over his back one of the old robes that his master had given him and went to answer.

“Master Grimaud?” a halting voice said from the darkness of the hallway.

It was not possible to identify a body in such darkness, but Grimaud only grunted in frustration.

“Master Grimaud,” the voice called again and a hand pulled his shirt.

Grimaud looked down and smiled, little Blaisois was at his door, in the same attire he was. He exclaimed his surprise with a guttural grunt, he was not used to be disturbed in his room.

“Olivain kicked me out of the bed,” Blaisois sobbed and used his little hand to wipe away the tears.

For a second, Grimaud felt the need to tell the child it was not his problem, that he better find a way to protect his sleeping space, because there was no other bed available for children who didn't pull their weight around the house. He was never the best person to deal with children.

“Cold,” was the only thing he could gabbled before moving his bulk from the threshold. “Come.”

Some hurried steps trod for the first time in his sanctuary, not even his master had dared to interrupt his solitude. This intrusion left a bad taste, as if that room was not to be the same again after that visit. The boy climbed to the bed, because there was no other place to sit and stared at him as if waiting for further instructions.

Grimaud looked at the kid, long hair and big eyes, and an air of helplessness that would disarm even his master. A couple of years ago, when Blaisois had come to the house, Grimaud had already noticed these characteristics, but, in all honesty, he had hoped that they would lose their effect with familiarity.

“Don't let Olivain bully you,” Grimaud grunted, sitting by the child's side, “be strong.”

“But he's so big! He scares me...”

“Bully!” Grimaud declared and returned to his bread. “Coward!”

“He's mean! He said no one cares about me,” Blaisois sobbed a little more, “not even my ma...”

Grimaud spat his bread, because he need his mouth to laugh. Olivain was sent to Bragelonne because his mother was a widow and had not enough food to feed her seven children. As the Breton suspected, the older boy was taking it out with the little boy, who stared at him in complete astonishment.

“Not funny!”

“Very,” Grimaud tousled the orphan’s hair. “The master wanted you here, he’s your godfather, not Olivain’s. He cares.”

The boy shook his head, because he refused to believe that simple truth.

“What’s your name?”

“Blaisois.”

Grimaud shook his head: “Jean-Bernard Grimaud.”

“I’m Blaisois.”

“Master calls you Blaisois, because he calls me Grimaud.” Grimaud wrapped a piece of ham and put it to his mouth. “I was there when Priest poured the water.”

“Why?”

Grimaud shrugged. “No new Grimaud, I think.”

“Eh?”

“Not married. No children. No intention.” Grimaud raised his shoulders. “Master needed new Grimaud. There was always a Grimaud.”

“Always?”

Grimaud raised his mug and nodded before taking a long swig. Talking was making him thirsty. “Since the time of the Maid of Orléans, at least.”

“Oh!” The boy could be young, but he knew who was Joan of Arc.

“Peace or war, food or hunger, honor or disgrace; the only thing in common: Grimaud.”

Blaisois watched him drink before signaling the crust of bread on the dish. Grimaud sighed, if he had already shared the bed, to share his dinner was a trite matter.

"So, someone cares about you: me," Grimaud wrapped the bread on ham and gave it to the child. "Don't heed Olivain."

“I won't,” Blaisois munched his dinner with a big smile, tears had left some dirty streaks on his cheeks. 

Grimaud smiled while the kid nibbled his morsel, all he had said was truth, and it was good that someone could take the baton and care for the master's child in the future. Blaisois just needed to muster some pride of being part of something and to learn the trade.

“Eh... Master Grimaud?” Blaisois voice dragged him out of his meditations.

“Eh?”

“May I sleep here tonight?”

Grimaud felt the sting of grievance, because this was _his room_ ; he worked years to have this bed and this space and Blasois had no rights over his boon. Then, he noticed he had to be consequent, he couldn't say the boy he cared about him and then kick him out to the cold.

“Yup,” he agreed and pushed back the blankets, “but tomorrow, you'll fight for your place in your bed.”

“I'll do, I'll do!” Blaisois pledged as he took up the pillows and the best place on the bed. “Thank you, Master Grimaud!”

As Grimaud snuffed out the candle, he got time to reflect about his master and the young master, because it was a good thing to have a young one to carry on with tradition, but it takes a lot of giving to have one. In this especific case: his time alone and his privacy. He grunted his disappointment as he threw his robe to the footboard and wondered if it was worthwhile.

“Master Grimaud?”

“ _What?_ ” Grimaud almost barked. The last thing he wanted was to answer another question as he was trying to find a place to sleep.

“I’ll make you proud.”

Grimaud stayed stunned on the bed as the kid hugged him with a happy sigh. 

Perhaps, it was worthwhile.


End file.
